


Seating Arrangements

by ItsSweaterWeather



Series: Lucky F**king Couple [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Complete, F/M, Fluff, Fluffy McFluff, Post TFP, Post-TFP, Romance, Romantic Fluff, SO MUCH FLUFF, Sentimental Sherlock, Sherlolly - Freeform, Snuggling, Swooning, achingly sweet, proceed at your own risk - then see a dentist, so unabashedly romantic I almost can't stand it!, sugar rush - Freeform, sweet as candy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-17 13:46:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13660257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsSweaterWeather/pseuds/ItsSweaterWeather
Summary: Sherlock relaxed into his niece’s warm, pliable weight. Her suffocating waves of love knocked him flat, that unspoken trust in his goodness, her belief that he wouldn’t drop her or otherwise harm her tiny bones with his strong hands.A similar undertow pulled at his chest whenever Molly awoke to find him staring at her, soft hazel eyes caressing his long, rather stark face. It was a wonder neither of them fled from his sharp, silent attention — and the tsunami of remoteness he was only just now learning to tame with Ella Thompson’s assistance.Instead, they waded in to his deep end; Rosie because, at three, Sherlock doubted she knew any better, other than her father, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade. And Mycroft — when the moon shone blue and the wolf in wolf’s clothing was in need of tiny human conversation to accompany his tea and raisin scone (or three) with Cornish clotted cream at The Palm Court.Molly swam a strong breaststroke into his turbulent waters because…“I love you.”





	Seating Arrangements

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Please steer clear if you are not in the mood for a bona fide sugar rush. Like, srsly, this is a tray full of cupcakes, puddings, biscuits, and doughnuts so sweet, it'll make your teeth hurt...just in time for Valentine's Day. I kid, but this is romantic sweetness that I blame on a Galentine's Day get-together. It's a an honest-to-goddess, sprinkles-covered Sherlolly snuggle-fest!
> 
>  **Setting:** 221b, naturally. 
> 
> **Early PostScript I:** No sex but... let's just assume they had a mind-numbing session afterward because, MY GAWD! How could one not after this interlude???
> 
>  **Early PostScript II:** Unedited for _my_ enjoyment; dripping in frosting, covered in ganache, and topped with copious crumbles for _your_ enjoyment - think one of those delicious doughnuts from Crosstown.

Sherlock gazed out the window at everything and nothing in particular.

The evening's rush had begun, turning Baker Street into a writhing, unending line of humanity; earthworms inching their way to and from the station. He shifted Rosie from his right hip to his left and silently congratulated himself on his brilliance for having carved out an occupation that neither required an attache case nor an Oyster Card.

"Could you imagine, Rosie?" he whispered into the girl's hair. They both shuddered at the incredulity.

“‘is okay,” she clapped and patted Sherlock on the head. Then she did as she always did: made exactly like her uncle and stared intently out the window.

Waiting.

 

***

 

Molly checked the lab’s wall clock. Then her phone.

4:03pm.

She signed, mimicking one of those voluptuous, long-winded sounds she’d heard so often from across this very same worktop. Her attempt didn’t do the man or his noises nearly enough justice. Sherlock had lips made for gusts of aggravation; plush things the color of bruised peaches.

Ripe and soft and…

A jolt of electricity rippled from her toes to her scalp. Those lips had blazed a trail from inside her knee to the thin (and very sensitive) skin over her hip last night.

Molly shuddered and cleared her throat.

“OK, ok, so… ,” Tarique scratched his head. He flipped over one of the tests and scribbled down yet another checklist. “I’ve gone through and reassessed the blood, urine, bile, and hair…”

Molly felt bad for him. He’d struggled with Mr. Malbourne’s lab results, pored over the minutia and still couldn’t find the correlation between the final toxicology numbers and her cause of death. She didn’t want to rush him; she’d been a first year once too.

But…

She checked her phone again.

4:05pm.

“Um, _Tarique…_ ,” She smiled brightly, letting the two syllables of his name fill the empty room, hoping they’d hit him over the head and knock the answer into him on their trip around.

Tarique looked up at her. His frown had sunk deeper, a sure sign of a dog with a bone if ever Molly had seen one. “I know it’s there Miss… _Molly,_ ” he said, sheepishly correcting himself before she had the chance to do it — for the thousandth time. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and chewed at the cap of his felt tip pen. She knew that look, the overwhelming desire to force comprehension, to muscle the probable causes into the light. To not give up. Molly heard the gears of his brain working, the sound so reminiscent of…

She reached into her pocket and checked her phone. Again.

4:10pm.

“ _Tarique…_ ,” she smiled louder and dialed up the full wattage of her supervisory head of pathology voice, gathering up the rest of the file with efficient and absolute movements. “Considering that Mr. Malbourne isn’t likely to go anywhere tonight…” She shoved her stack into a red folder and held out a hand, indicating that it was okay for Tarique to leave the dead where they lay tonight. “Why don’t we pick this up tomorrow, say, 9:30am? I’m sure you’ve got mates waiting for you at The Fox —“

“Oh, no. I’ve got all night —“ he hummed.

Tarique hooked his foot under the stool and settled into the corner.

Molly swallowed back a stern tone before it escaped her mouth and pummeled Tarique about the head.

The lab belonged to her. She reigned supreme over its monitors and microscopes, had earned the right to direct staff pathologists and guide first-years.

The corner, however, belonged to Sherlock. Silly, she knew. He was neither doctor nor technician. But she’d never not think of it or treat it so.

Easy enough for lab staff to avoid the corner when Sherlock was in residence; they tripped over themselves trying to stay as far away from his as possible. When he wasn't at Bart’s, however, an overwhelming protectiveness of that corner - _his_ corner - settled in her chest. Molly improvised a Pavlovian regimen of drawing technicians and fellow staffers to the opposite end of the worktop, suggesting they use her scanner rather than “that old thing” at the far end.

She rewarded her coworkers (and assuaged her low-grade guilt) with very good shortbread.

Tarique didn’t so much trespass when he unknowingly slid to the far side of the worktop as seal his own fate. Watching the lanky boy with the crooked smile and furrowed brow take up real estate unofficially reserved for the world’s only consulting detective tugged at Molly’s heart - and forced her sympathetic hand. She cut Tarique’s tutoring session short. He’d learnt enough for the day.

She cocked a brow at him and thrust her hand out farther.

“Oh…Sorry, Miss Hooper,” he mumbled, embarrassment evident on his young, eager face. He handed over his paperwork and capped his pen. “9:30 tomorrow’ll be lovely.”

Molly was already scuttling out the door before his last word hit the air. “My thoughts exactly, Tarique,” she called over her shoulder. “And, for the thousandth time, it's 'Molly'. See you tomorrow!”

 

***

 

Sherlock and Rosie stacked wood in the grate.

 _He_ stacked. She…unstacked.

The uncle stood up and appraised the niece's efforts. “Not bad, Watson.” He picked her up and set her in John’s chair, well clear of any wayward sparks, and lit the fire. “Of course, your last log nearly toppled the whole endeavor,” he paused, unable to help himself from playing headmaster, “but you’ll get the hang of it. Goodness knows you’re already better at building a fire than your father.”

“Up,” she agreed, thrusting her arms at him.

Lesson abruptly over, Sherlock checked the time.

4:34pm.

He slipped his mobile back into his trouser pocket and scooped her into his arms, pecking her ruddy cheeks, first left then right then left again, until he’d kissed them both breathless.

“Stop,” she ordered gulping air between giggles. Her uncle obliged, reluctantly. The pair returned to the window. And the waiting.

Sherlock relaxed into his niece’s warm, pliable weight. Her suffocating waves of love knocked him flat, that unspoken trust in his goodness, her belief that he wouldn’t drop her or otherwise harm her tiny bones with his strong hands.

A similar undertow pulled at his chest whenever Molly awoke to find him staring at her, soft hazel eyes caressing his long, rather stark face. It was a wonder neither she nor Rosie fled from his sharp, silent attention — and the tsunami of remoteness he often spun around himself. He was only just now learning to tame those storms with Ella Thompson’s assistance.

Instead, they waded in to his deep end; Rosie because, at three, Sherlock doubted she knew any better, other than her father, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade. And Mycroft — when the moon shone blue and the wolf in wolf’s clothing was in need of tiny human conversation to accompany his tea and raisin scone (or three) with Cornish clotted cream at The Palm Court.

Molly swam a strong, steady breaststroke into his turbulent waters because…

_“I love you.”_

Rosie and her auntie thought themselves safe in his choppy seas.

Sherlock closed his eyes and nuzzled the back of his niece’s neck. She smelled of chamomile shampoo and wet biscuits and he couldn't inhale her scent deep enough.

It was he who’d been saved from drowning.

After several minutes spent in companionable silence, Rosie clasped tiny hands on either side of her uncle’s cheeks and turned his face toward hers.

“Now?” she asked, her little voice squeaky with anticipation.

He smiled extra-wide for her, the muscles of his cheeks stretching and contorting against her palms. It was an expression he reserved for his niece alone. The series of hiccuping chortles that exploded from her chest never ceased to make his stomach flutter.

“No, not yet,” he laughed. “That’s the 139 to Waterloo.”

Rosie rolled her eyes and pressed her forehead to his.

“I know,” he whispered. “The waiting. But Auntie takes the tube. Not the bus. She’ll be here shortly.”

“When?”

“Well, allowing for any wayward first-years hijacking her attention…” he pouted. She’d never coddled him as much as she did the first years. “…and, given that she’ll take the long way round to Barbican instead of cutting across Smithfield…”

Sherlock let the words go unspoken. A chill blown from invisible lips skipped down his spine. Ella had informed him that the sensation was, quite possibly, guilt. _"It's one you might find yourself leaning into more often now that you've decided to take a more active role in our sessions together,"_ Ella pointed out.

He _had_ committed suicide on that side of the building - with Molly’s help. Even so, he wouldn’t fault her for going out of her way to avoid the little courtyard. It saw a fair amount of camera-toting tourists so many years later.

And she swore that the pavement still bore the marks of _his-not-his_ fall.

“When?” Rosie repeated, punctuating her impatience with puckered lips and furrowed brows.

Sherlock returned his niece’s look with an exaggeration of his own. “Seventeen minutes.”

“Promise?” she sighed.

God, he hoped so. He couldn’t remember the last time either of them had enjoyed an ordinary ten-hour workday.

“Promise.”

The sky started to turn from the day's fair blue-gray to evening's soft mauve. February’s temperatures had held steady enough for cherry blossom and magnolia buds to begin their annual show. He and Mrs. Hudson spent several recent afternoons strolling the leafy edges of Regent’s boating lake with Rosie in tow. The mild hours among the pinks and whites and muted corals were their clandestine treat… until Rosie ratted them out over Sunday supper last week.

 _“When your best friend is a 3-year-old,”_ Molly laughed, _“what do you expect, Sherlock?”_

What indeed?

The alarm on his mobile buzzed.

"Soon, Rosie.”

 

***

 

The minutes ticked at her heels, chasing Molly down long marble corridors and pedways. She broke into a walk-run from the old stone building to the shiny glass and steel extension. At last, she pushed out onto Little Britain and the deafening racket of a never-ending hospital construction zone.

She’d never put enough distance between her and Smithfield Ambulance Station, however. No matter the convoluted path, the blood red memories on that little strip of pavement lingered at the fringes of her mind.

Molly slipped through the quiet pedestrian lanes and courtyard surrounding St. Bartholomew The Great. There were quicker routes to Barbican Station to be sure but this winding path provided a gentle buffer between the day's rigorous work and the night's meticulous adherence to  _not-work._

Tarique had messed with her timing, set her back by ten minutes. She’d chosen to stay anyway, hoping the few extra minutes of guidance would trip that switch in a first year’s brain. Then the bulb would flare and the jumble of black numbers would become shining beacons, leading him to the answer.

Molly loved that moment when a first year’s eyes filled with wonder, when knowledge coalesced with instinct.

She also loved a neat and tidy ten-hour workday, too — especially when the world’s only consulting detective had promised to close the shutters on his shop at the same time.

Barbican Station in sight, Molly pushed all thought of the pavement and her first years out of her mind and sprinted across Long Lane. Oyster card in hand, she slapped it on the reader and ran down the stairs just in time to catch a Circle Line headed toward Baker Street.

 

***

 

4:48 pm.

Sherlock didn’t so much hear as feel it; the rolling crescendo of the Hammersmith Line as it picked up speed out of the station for points west. The route’s subterranean track skirted the southern end of his stretch of Baker Street, barely audible reverberations that tickled the foundation of block 200. His body missed that seismic pressure whenever he was away from the flat for extended periods.

He checked his phone again, scrolling through the arrival times on his Tube Tracker. Had she left Bart’s as planned, Molly would’ve made that train and be here already. Knowing her as he did, Sherlock knew she’d missed the target and stayed behind, waiting for the dawn to strike some poor arsehole who couldn’t see the answer before him, plain as the nose on his face; coaxing her charge into the light…

_“Go on. You say it first. Say it like you mean it.”_

He rubbed at the ache in the center of his chest, fear squeezing the life out of him every time he considered just how close he’d come to never saying it, to never telling Molly how much he meant it.

 _"Yes, Sherlock, you're bound to experience those anxieties as well."_ Ella again. Patient. Nodding softly. Writing on her legal pad. 

“Now?” Rosie asked, rearranging his hair for him.

Sherlock forced a bright smile at her and nodded. But sorrow tugged at the corners of his mouth, the heavy weight of what might’ve been had Molly’s flat actually been rigged to explode.

What might’ve been had Molly not pulled him into the light.

He sucked in a breath and scanned his phone again. Circle Line pulling in now.

“Yup,” he said, popping the last consonant against the girl’s ear. “Now.” She wiggled appreciatively and they sauntered into the kitchen.

Molly could’ve just as easily opted for the earlier Metropolitan rather than waiting the extra four minutes for the Circle.

 _“I like just like Circle’s platform at Baker Street better,”_ she shrugged. _"Surely you can understand that, Sherlock.”_

He could. The way the light tumbled down the shafts, grazing the rough brick and arched ceiling. The hum and whoosh as the Bombardier carriages pushed the air out of their path. The platform always put him in mind of a cathedral on a holy day.

“OK, Rosie.” Sherlock leaned the girl over worktop and let her flip the kettle switch. “In exactly 90 seconds, the water will boil and your auntie will walk through that door.”

 

***

 

4:49pm

Mrs. Hudson met Molly at the bottom of the stairs.

“You’re cutting it close, aren’t you dear?” The woman clucked and checked her watch. “Here, let me help…” She fussed about Molly’s head, unwinding the interminably long scarf and smoothing down her static-laden ponytail.

Molly exhaled, full of faux aggravation. She adored the older woman’s attention to everyone and everything that crossed her shabby but well-loved threshold. “I know!” Molly sighed and rolled her eyes heavenward. “One of these days, he’s gonna encase me in a block of solid ice with those blue eyes. Or he’s gonna impale the first-years with icicles,” she snorted.

Free of her jacket and scarf, she toed off her shoes and kissed Baker Street’s den mother on the cheek.

“I gave them a sleeve of good biscuits to keep them occupied,” Mrs. Hudson called after her. “Hopefully they’ve left one or two for you.”

 

***

 

Sherlock marked her arrival even before the heavy door onto Baker Street rattled in its jamb, before her stockinged feet thundered up the stairs. Now that he’d allowed himself the pleasure of her, Molly rumbled through his marrow like the underground lines that traveled to and from Baker Street Station. Like Rosie’s shallow snoring.

He and his niece were waiting for her in the center of the sitting room’s threadbare rug, a totem pole in a blue silk dressing gown and a petite corduroy pinny with ice cream cones appliquéd to the bib.

“Am I terribly late?” she asked, bounding through the door and reaching for Rosie.

The kettle switched off with a soft _pop!_ Sherlock cocked his brow and nodded in the direction of the kitchen.

She followed his gaze and turned back, dumbfounded. “How do you manage to have the kettle ready at the precise moment I walk through the door?”

Oh! He loved this more than anything. He relinquished Rosie to her waiting arms and prepared his lecture; a precise methodology, complete with hand gestures, on how he correctly anticipated the responses of people he knew so well to scenarios that he devised.

“Magickkkk,” Rosie interrupted, firing the last consonant off her fat, crumb-covered mouth.

Molly agreed. “I do believe you’re right,” she said, regarding Sherlock from over the girl’s head. Her gaze pooled in his lower belly, a trickle of mossy brown and green warmth he wanted to lay down in.

Later, he promised himself.

“You’re cutting it close,” Sherlock sighed, long-winded with a shoulder-sagging flourish. He pulled down two mugs and prepared tea while Molly bounced Rosie around the room. “Tarique again?”

She didn’t answer but her gentle expression told him all he needed to know. That she was more considerate and empathetic than he by half - by whole! - he was painfully aware.

That he was the luckiest man on the planet he was profoundly grateful.

 

***

 

5:01pm.

“Now,” ordered Rosie. “We sit.”

“You heard the lady, Uncle Sherlock. We sit.” Molly juggled the hot mug with Rosie in her arms. She managed to only spill several drops before plopping into John Watson’s chair. She rearranged herself and balanced Rosie on her lap. She watched Sherlock sink into his own chair, lean and graceful as one of Degas’ dancers come to life, without losing a drop of tea.

“How do you do that?” she teased.

He shot an innocent look at her from atop his mug and mouthed “Magic.”

Yes, he was, Molly thought. And so beautifully ordinary that it made her heart burst to catch him letting Rosie pile bubbles over his chin while he gave her a bath. Or surreptitiously making sure Mrs. Hudson was well-stocked with tea, good biscuits, and herbal soothers to get her through rainy spells without having to leave Baker Street in a downpour.

Or keep silent vigil with his best friend on his wedding anniversary… or Mary’s birthday… and all the other important dates John no longer shared with his wife.

There were days for all of them when Mary’s presence glowed like a soft halo around her daughter’s head. And others, like tonight - the anniversary of Mary’s death - when her absence wove muted colors through the fabric of their lives; a blanket that wrapped around them and provided quiet comfort as the day slipped into night.

A pattern of life and death that every member of their little-chosen family understood well enough not to take its sorrows or its benevolence for granted.

 

***

 

She began the little ritual last autumn after Mrs. Hudson had fussed about winding all the clocks back one hour.

The shift in daylight meant that the sun set an hour earlier, while Rosie was still awake to notice its disappearance. Although Baker Street faced east, it’s position near the leafy park end of the block gave the flat an excellent view of the changing sky.

Molly had installed a timer on the lamp behind John’s chair, the vermillion-colored ginger jar with the yellowing silk shade. She’d set it to go on around 5:15pm should Sherlock forget that toddlers, unlike grown men with noses buried in their compound microscopes with adjustable iris diaphragms and LED systems, appreciated rooms with less technologically savvy, more fundamentally bright illumination.

Not long after, Sherlock noticed Rosie clapping whenever the light clicked on. Whether by instinct or an acute sensitivity to the darkening sky, it didn’t take long before she anticipated the soft _click!_ of the timer’s switch mechanism with impressive accuracy, abandoning whatever had occupied her interest to sit in his chair and wait out two or three minutes until the light came on.

Rosie began calling the light _mama_ around Christmas.

Sherlock started sitting with her on his lap, the two of them waiting for the light to click on, around New Year’s.

Molly spied them together the afternoon she’d left Bart’s early with a terrible chest cold.

John, although aware of the ritual, routinely missed it, showing up well after sunset to collect his daughter. He’d never said anything but Molly understood John’s perfectly-timed and unavoidable lateness. She’d explained it to Sherlock as though he were a three-year-old, not a grown genius — and he was grateful for her gentle way with poor arseholes like him, the ones who couldn’t see the answers before them, plain as the noses on their faces.

Softly coaxing her charges into the light…

 _“Sentiment?”_ he’d asked.

 _“Sentiment,”_ she’d nodded and kissed the tip of his nose.

More often than not, Mrs. Hudson filled in for Molly at the sunset light show, Molly having a steady job with mostly ordinary hours. While he appreciated Mrs. Hudson’s hovering and doting more than he’d admit aloud, she wasn’t Molly. He missed Molly’s quiet company and mismatched blouse and cardi combinations; her solid weight in his lap and steady hand against his skin, his life.

 

***

 

5:10pm

Rosie scooted out of Molly’s arms and marched over to her uncle.

“No,” she pouted. “Siiiiiiit.” Rosie pounded a chubby fist on Sherlock’s knee and glared at her auntie, a fierce look that broached no further discussion.

He struggled to maintain his look of innocence. “You heard the lady, Molly. Siiiiiit,” he echoed his niece’s order and patted his lap.

Molly grinned. Uncle and niece were hard to resist when they marshaled their considerable forces of personality. She placed a hand on either arm of Sherlock’s well-loved Le Corbusier and leaned over him. Her nose skimmed his. “I’ve been told,” she whispered, “that domestic bliss has a tendency to make me pudgy. I wouldn’t want to crush you under the weight of my happiness.”

A beat passed.

Then two.

Those mercurial blue eyes slid from her face to the ample glimpse of breast her current position provided. The back to her face.

Another beat.

The gravitational force of his consideration plucked muscles aching for deeper exploration.

Later, she promised herself.

“Then let’s hope for my sake, Miss Hopper, you’ve put on at least two stone,” he smirked. “Now,” he said, relishing the authority of his own voice, “The lady said sit.” Sherlock spidered elegant fingers around Molly's waist and pulled her down on top his lap.

Her legs dangled over the side of the chair. Rosie clapped her hands in delight and reached for her auntie. “Up,” she demanded. Molly scooped her up and the three of them settled into a warm, comfortable pile.

Sherlock buried his nose into the crook of Molly’s neck. She pet Rosie’s wispy curls, winding the silky strands between her fingers. Their breath eventually synchronized, Sherlock's setting the deep notes, Molly filling in the middle range, and Rosie topping them all off with her light, sleepy wheezing.

In and out, in and out. Their combined softness muffled the solid tick-tocking of the clock on the ancient cooker.

Smoky purple and gray light from outside turned the dim flat into a jewel box of color and pattern, aided by the glow of the fire. Shapes danced on top of those already carved into the sitting room’s mismatched wallpaper. A damp chill had settled between the warped windows and the faded draperies but knew better than to encrouch upon their warm cocoon.

Scratched wood and tarnished brass. Cracked Formica and pock-marked chrome. Molly and Sherlock may reside at her well-appointed home across the river, but as far as she was concerned, this frayed flat in the middle of Marylebone, now his official office and Rosie’s sometimes nursery, was the most luxurious address in all of London — and the most exclusive.

“Ten…nine…eight…,” Sherlock pressed his lips into her carotid artery, his countdown melting into her skin. “…seven…six…five…four...”

Rosie clapped a sleepy beat in time with her uncle’s serene baritone,

Molly joined him for the last “Three…two…one.”

The timer clicked. The bulb flared, bathing the room in a snug glow the color of honey; too much light for a single old incandescent bulb hidden behind a heavy damask shade to produce.

“Ohhhhh,” Rosie sighed. She pointed to the ceiling, her big eyes round as saucers, her little voice in awe. “ _Mamaaaa._ ”

Molly followed the little girl’s attention to the ceiling, covered in stands of tiny, twinkly fairy lights. Lengths of wire crisscrossed and doubled over themselves. Hundreds - maybe thousands - of little bulbs pulsing, breathing life into every inch of the sitting room.

Sherlock’s arms tighten around her waist. Molly looked over at him, expecting a self-satisfied smile to grace his lean face. It’d be well-earned; Rosie was lit up brighter than the room. Instead, Sherlock’s head was back, his attention focused on the ceiling. Molly’s eyes brimmed with tears. She blinked them loose, letting the twin streaks of her happiness and her sorrow mark her cheeks.

Her lips brushed the thin, pale skin just under his jawbone. “How did you… _when_ did you…”

“Magic,” his voice softer than the beat of bird’s wings.

 

***

 

John found them napping together an hour later.

Sherlock cradled Molly in his lap, his face buried in her hair. Molly snuggled Rosie between them, her arm resting against his daughter’s middle should she have any designs on waking up and setting out on her own.

He took a grateful seat in his old chair and relaxed into the ambient noise floating up from Baker Street: the crackle of the fire. And the gentle glow coming from above.

“What the…?” Hundreds of fairy lights winked at him from the ceiling.

“Oh. Hello, John.” Sherlock’s voice rumbled across the floor, loud enough for John to hear without waking the woman and girl in his arms.

“Fairy lights?”

Sherlock smiled at his best friend and shook his head. “No. Magic.”

***FIN***


End file.
